


Bits and Pieces from a Charnel House Floor

by TheBraillebarian



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian
Summary: Prompts and ficlets from the apocalypse next door.Pairings/main characters are listed in the titles of each chapter.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen, Pickles the Drummer/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, Pickles the Drummer/Toki Wartooth/Magnus Hammersmith, William Murderface/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	1. Lullaby - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki had a nightmare about Magnus and who gets to comfort him? Magnus does! Ouch.
> 
> Inspired by [HeyMurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy)’s beautiful [gut punch art](https://lampmeeting.tumblr.com/post/631189577234776064/kloktober-day-5-nightmare-or-paling-around-just).

Every instinct in him screams to pull away, put some distance between them, reject the pain. Run. Magnus does the opposite and holds Toki as tight as he can. He’s never been good at this comforting shit but damn him if it’s not the least he can do to try.

“You…” he swallows past the coarse lump in his throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

A wet sniffle by his ear and he can feel the tremble in the arms around his back. Magnus’ fingers card through Toki’s hair, absently running from scalp to neck and back again. He takes care to keep his other hand on spine or shoulder, a firm pressure or careful touch and nothing more.

“I’m here, man,” he mumbles. “Whatever it was it’s…it’s not happening now.”

Something wet is crawling down his bare shoulder and he blinks back his own tears. Toki clings to him, fingers digging bruises into his skin, face half crushed against his neck, trembling chin gouging his shoulder. Magnus draws a shaky breath and begins to hum some tuneless thing. Hadn’t he always yearned for a lullaby and strong arms to hold him? Maybe Toki wants the same.

The sound out of Toki’s throat is a small, gasping, animal thing. He used to cry in loud bursts, wailing like a child. Now it is always so quiet, the noises a wounded creature can’t help but to make. Magnus would gut himself again, throw his mangled heart at Toki’s feet if it would mean he never had to hear that sound.

Toki is panting in his arms and there’s snot in his hair. Holding him as tight as he can, hands stroking the spots where he never left a mark, Magnus realises he’s returned the favour and tries to stem the flow. It’s a loud, undignified snort in the dark and Toki flinches in his grip.

“Sorry, sorry,” he rasps.

The other man makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a laugh. Magnus crushes a wet kiss to the part of Toki’s head he can reach and holds on. He hums under his tears and refuses to let go.


	2. The Hammersmith Sound -Pickles & Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles discovers the Hammersmith Sound and Magnus pretends not to regret agreeing to hanging out with this guy.

“Ha ha, you sure about this buddy?”

A cold wind whipped Pickles’ hair in his face. His grin was wicked, eyes sparkling, knuckles white on the grocery cart’s plastic handle.

“Too late to pussy out now, Mags!” he cackled.

The lanky guitarist was wedged in the basket, legs and arms dangling over the sides. His dark curly hair billowed in the crisp mountain air. From this height they could see the whole of this backwater town nestled in the mountains. It was beautiful.

“Ahn three!” Pickles said. “Three!”

He bolted forward, shoving all of his weight against the cart before gravity took control. He shrieked with glee as his feet left the ground, chest pressed to Magnus’ head. From under his chin a sound like the gates of hell being flung wide erupted out of Magnus. He shrieked like a demon and Pickles’ manic laugh blended with it. They roared down the hill and halfway through the sleepy neighbourhood street before a rock sent their chariot spinning. Magnus cackled and howled as the cart tipped, dumping both men onto the asphalt.

“Holy shit dood!” Pickles bounced to his feet. “Ya never told me ya could sound like that!”

Magnus sat up, grinning. “What about it?”

“I want that in somethin’. My next gig, whatever!”

“You serious, man?” his brown eyes widened.

“Fuck yeah! I was gonna ask ya to join on guitar anyway.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. You in, Hamnersmith?” Pickles held out his hand.

There was only one answer. “Fuck yeah.”

“That’s what I like to hear! Now get yer skinny ass up, we’re goin’ again!”


	3. An Awful Joy - Murderface/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles and Murderface have a cool bros movie night. 
> 
> Kiss prompt for apineapplheart on tumblr. One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Movie night was Pickles’ idea. Two bros, some snacks, just him and Murderface and whatever they agreed to watch. It was a great idea, cool, and Murderface had fucked it up less than two films in.

The other man had been steadily encroaching on Murderface’s side of the couch until he was snuggled under one arm. It was nice, comfortable. Somewhere in the middle of The Thing their eyes had met. Murderface had leaned down, wanting to be closer, wanting to fall into that ethereal green, wanting…he didn’t know what…and their lips met. A light press of skin, taste of humid breath, a spark of something good before Murderface jolted back.

“Isch thisch…” he swallowed, eyes darting into the dark, anywhere but Pickles’ face. “Isch thisch okay?”

The answer was a body rolling into and over his, Pickles’ full weight pinning his thighs. Warm hands grabbed his cheeks and Murderface saw a flash of shining eyes before he was yanked over the edge. Lips smashed into his, hot and insistent until he had to answer them with motion of his own. He let himself be crushed, moulded, shaped by someone else’s desire for as long as it could last. Beard bristles scratched his chin, prickling counterpoint to the hot softness above. He was being eaten alive, teeth pulling only to be replaced by a tongue tracing his swollen flesh. An awful joy fizzed in his blood. When Pickles let him go, Murderface was wide eyed and breathless.

“Yeah, dood,” Pickles smirked. “It’s okay.”

Murderface let himself fall when their lips met again, swallowed by the terrible joy of being wanted.


	4. Brand New Nostalgia - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus can’t resist being a know-it-all, a weakness Toki is always happy to exploit. 
> 
> [HeyMurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy) and [ThisisVenereVeritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas) asked for the same prompt! It’s okay, I wanted this too. :D Starting with eskimo kisses before moving on to soft kisses.

A warm shadow blotted out the snowy park. Cold shade, warm breath on his cheek.

“Yes?” Magnus drawled. “Can I help you?”

“Nopes,” Toki chirped.

Kids shrieked in the distance, shoes throwing up plumes of sparkling snow by the frozen lake. Magnus couldn’t really see them past the white glare and Toki’s face blocking his vision. His cheek was beginning to feel damp.

“What are you doing?”

Toki’s words buzzed into the roots of his hair. “Eskimos kissings.”

Magnus strangled the feeling bubbling in his throat to reply flatly, “Kunik.”

“Kunik?”

“That’s what the Inuit call it. And you’re doing it wrong.”

“Ja, Misters Smarty?” Toki hadn’t moved, lips tickling Magnus’ scruffy cheek. “How’s you’s do it then?”

Refusing to smile, he turned his head to press the tip of his nose to Toki’s. The cold robbed him of feeling in spite of the sun they sat in. Feeling a rush of nostalgia, embarrassment, and giddiness, Magnus rubbed his nose against Toki’s. It earned him a delighted laugh from the other man. Eyes closed, Toki repeated the gesture with a grin.

Unbidden, Magnus found his lips laying a quick kiss on that bright smile. With a giggle Toki dragged his nose to the side and left a kiss on the upturned corner of Magnus’ mouth. The older man shuffled his cold nose over a warm cheek and huffed a laugh there with another kiss.

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” lips left a warm ghost on his jaw.

“Carefuls,” Toki breathed into his cheek. “Somebodies might sees yous being happy.”

“Oh, fuck off,” chuckling, Magnus pressed his nose between sparkling blue eyes and placed a kiss on the nose that had gotten him into this mess.


	5. A Quiet Dinner - Charles/Nathan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Nathan/Charles for [murderofonerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose). :)
> 
> Prompt: A kiss that tastes of the food/dessert they are eating.

Cutlery and dinnerware clink against a backdrop of soothing instrumental music. With only Nathan, the evening is going surprisingly well, or at least pleasantly low stress. Charles will take what he can get. Beside him Nathan is enjoying what looks to be an exquisite brownie alamode.  
  
“Hey,” an elbow jabs him in the arm. “Hey, Charles?”  
  
“Yes, Nathan?”  
  
There’s a devious look about the bigger man. Charles begins to mentally prepare himself for an abrupt end to this quiet evening.  
  
“You, uh, got something on your face.”  
  
“Oh, ah, thank you,” he dabs at his mouth with a cloth napkin.  
  
“Still there,” a minuscule smirk, invisible to the untrained eye, is playing at the edges of Nathan’s lips.  
  
Charles raises the napkin to point at his face.  
  
“Nuh-uh.”  
  
“Ah, here?”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
“Would you mind ah, showing me then?”  
  
Dark hair curtains his view. He tastes rich bitter chocolate, sweet vanilla, spiced with champagne and the undertone of savoury that is always on Nathan’s tongue. When dessert comes his way, Charles knows it won’t even compare to this. On instinct he tilts forward as Nathan leans away, grinning smugly.  
  
“That was, ah. Thank you, Nathan. Did you get it?”  
  
A low and surprised chuckle. “Oh shit. Oops.”  
  
Charles lifts a questioning brow.  
  
“Uh. Now you really do have something on your face.”  
  
He licks his lips to find a tracery of crumbs. “Well. Perhaps you can help me get rid of it.”


	6. Night Terror - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt for anon: Kissing tears from the other’s face.
> 
> Some violent imagery, disorienting descriptions, nausea mention.

Eyes snap wide, unseeing. He stumble crawls to the bathroom retching. Smell of bleach in his nose and the faux nausea passing tilts him back against the frigid tub. He lodges himself in a corner shivering, mouth tight shut.

“Magnus?” Toki’s voice is sleep heavy.

He pants through his nose, a whine rising with every harried breath as Toki’s shadowed form shuffles close. Warmth and solidity gently prise him away from cold tiles. Arms fold him close, legs tucking around him, a hand drawing his head to rest on a shoulder.

It’s still clawing at his insides. A strained whimper gasps past his lips. Fingers scratching in his throat, vomiting out his mouth. He is held, safe, but the presence goading him deeper into dark horror still looms behind. He can hear the begging, the screaming, aching through his skull. In the dark the world feels vivid red.

“I can’t, I can’t...”

Hands wet and red to the elbows. His body trembles from the bones out, breaths loud and keening. There’s guitar wire twisted around his hands cutting to the bones.

“I can’t...I don’t...don’t...!”

A wail rips from his throat. The arms around him hold firm, giving him no leverage to struggle, only slide his shaking fists between their bodies.

“I’m sorry!” he screams. “I’m sorry I’m sorry oh god I’m so sorry! Please don’t! Stop! Please please!”

The words tangle into discordant begging between howling sobs. Don’t let me hurt you. Help me. Leave me. Save you don’t forgive can’t help you let them have me don’t please don’t! He thrashes, writhes.

A deep voice speaking softly weaves through the panic. He can feel the words on his cheek pressed into the hollow of a throat. They make no sense, aren’t in English, and that is what begins to soothe the terror. He doesn’t dream in Norwegian.

Magnus’ screams quiet into loud gulping sobs. Toki let’s him weep and keen into his shoulder, murmuring steadily. A hand wanders through hair to cup his wet cheek, a thumb gently wiping at the tears. They huddle together until the sobs ease into miserable whimpers.

“Magnus?”

He whines an answer.

“Shh,” Toki strokes his sweaty hair. “Ams here with yous.”

When the shaking eases, Toki gently lifts Magnus’ face. He presses a kiss to one cheek then the other, to closed eyes where fresh salt gathers, to a clammy forehead. Repeats the pattern before tucking Magnus’ head under his chin. He begins to sing a Norse hymn, a song to guide the lost home.


	7. As Long As You Need Me - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [HeyMurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy) from the mental health prompt list: “I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to.” This was a very great excuse to write myself a hug.

From the bedroom door Magnus could see Toki slumped on the couch. The tv was off, blinds shut, limning his soft hair in dull yellow light. He recognized that hunched posture, the shape of a bone deep weariness that was all too familiar.

“Hey, buddy,” Magnus said from the door. “Everything okay?”

A small indifferent noise was the answer. That was never a good sign. Gingerly, Magnus walked around the couch to sit beside his boyfriend. He was still uncertain what to do at times like these, more accustomed to being the one wearing his feelings on his sleeves.

“You…wanna talk about it?”

“Nots reallys,” Toki’s gaze was distant.

“Okay.”

They sat in dense silence for a few minutes, traffic passing on the streets below. Magnus tapped his fingers on his knees unconsciously. Grimacing, he at last reached for the other man, hooking a broad shoulder with one hand and pulling. Toki slumped into his chest unresisting and let Magnus’ other arm encircle him. He let out a pained sigh to accompany the relieved breath Magnus exhaled.

“Yous ever wishes yous coulds cry sometime?”

“Yeah,” he squeezed the body in his arms.

The next silence was less strained but still heavy. Magnus did his best to relax, let his hands fidget over Toki’s arm and card through his long hair. Sighing, the younger man wormed closer, resting his head under Magnus’ bearded chin. Still holding him, the older man slid his free hand into one of Toki’s limp and open palms. He caressed the lines there before gently twining their fingers together.

“Sorries,” Toki murmured.

“Hey. No,” Magnus shook their clasped hands softly.

“Yous gots things to dos.”

“Nothing more important than this,” he pressed a kiss to the top of Toki’s head. “I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to.”

“And thens?”

“I’ll be here after that, too.”

The warmth in his arms shifted closer with a sniffle and a whispered, “Thanks yous.”

“You don’t need to thank me, buddy,” he held Toki tight. “I’m here for you.”


	8. Climb Every Mountain - Pickles, Nathan, & Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On meeting Nathan, Pickles has a great idea. 
> 
> Inspired by HeyMurphy and Fishklok. 
> 
> You can read it as Nickles if you like, I won’t tell. :D

Nathan Explosion is the biggest motherfucker Pickles has ever seen. Yeah he’s met taller guys and guys with more mass. But this dude! He’s got both and it’s god damn astonishing! The bar is mostly empty in the late afternoon, chairs still stacked on the tables. Nathan seems to fill the room with his presence. It wasn’t so noticeable outside but indoors it’s like being caged with a bear.

In the past two hours Pickles has made every excuse just to stand by the guy, feel the way his presence fills the space he occupies. Maybe it’s the beer talking or the excitement of a new project fizzing in his blood, but on his way back from a piss the best idea bobs to the surface of his brain.

“Hey Nate’n!” he hollers. “Catch!”

The big guy tenses as Pickles sprints across the room. He grunts when the short man leaps up, slamming into his broad chest and hoisting himself up like he’s climbing a tree. Arms wrap under Pickles’ thighs and ass to lift him higher. Head spinning, he cackles and whoops with glee.

“Holy shit, dood!”

“Uh,” Nathan’s face is red but not from any sort of exertion.

“Pickles! For fuck’s sake!” Magnus howls, which only makes him laugh harder.

“It’s fine,” Nathan grunts. “He’s not heavy.”

To prove the point he bounces the man in his arms, then grins.

“Bet I can press him.”

“What?!” Pickles shrieks.

“Spot me,” he says to Magnus, who sets his drink down with a put upon look.

Pickles feels himself being forced skyward, his flailing arms no resistance to the power beneath him. It’s like falling in reverse, all the gravity suddenly in the heavens and him waiting to splatter in the clouds. Helplessly he scream laughs and swats at a ceiling beam, hand making a solid thump before he’s lowered. Nathan lifts him a few more times with the same ease and even Magnus is grinning by the time Pickles wraps his shaking arms around a broad neck. He slaps Nathan’s back heartily.

“Yer a cool guy, Nate’n,” he laughs.

“Yeah,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Uh. Can you get down? I want a drink.”

“Sure dood. Nyeh...can’t feel my legs though.”

“Just let go. I got you.”

And he does, setting Pickles on a bar stool with ease while keeping a hand in the small of his back to hold the guy steady. After a few gulps of tepid beer punctuated by Pickles’ giggling, Magnus speaks over his head.

“So what do you think?”

“He’s cool,” an affectionate slap between the shoulders that almost knocks Pickles into the bar. “If he can play, he’s in.”

“I can play.”

“He can play.”

Magnus and Pickles say in unison.

“You know Snakes N’ Barrels,” Magnus takes a pull from his mug.

“Yeah. But he’s gotta go harder than that.”

“Dood. I’m as hard and as lahng as you need.”

Magnus chokes on his beer and Nathan goes red in the face again. His gaze is burning as he slams down an empty mug and shoves his seat back.

“Yeah? Prove it. Let’s go.”

Grinning, Pickles slaps a wad of bills on the bar and follows in Nathan’s wake. There’s a drum kit waiting in a garage and he wants to touch the sky again.


	9. Stye - Knubbler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little thing about Dick Knubbler.

Drugs used to be fun. If he concentrates hard enough, Dick can still see the colors, the geometric shapes, feel the universe breathing around him. His nails click against hard glass and he has to remind himself to rub at the papery skin around the screws bolted into his cheeks. When he gets high enough his skin still goes warm and malleable but it’s not the same. He still feels the stye lodged between the lids, scratching and burning just out of reach. Sometimes he taps his fingers on the glass, smudging the lenses, trying to disturb the fish in his head. When he’s sober he watches pinwheels and shadows whirl into and out of existence just at the edge of sight, under the repeating digital static. He tries not to be sober.

Drugs used to be fun. Now he takes them to forget he can’t blink.


	10. Strays - Toki & Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki, Magnus, and strays.

Grocery bag of snacks swinging from one arm, Toki freezes before rounding the corner of Magnus’ dingy apartment building. There’s a strange noise coming from near the front steps and he’s sober enough to be cautious. Hesitantly he peers around the cracked brick corner and nearly drops the bag.

Magnus is crouched on the steps, hands out, a soft smile on his usually dour face. A collection of stray cats winds around his legs, pressing heads into his palms and sweeping their upright tails under his outstretched arms. The sound is Magnus himself, calling the cats to him and quietly talking. He scatters dry kibble on the ground from a worn plastic dish. 

Toki has never seen him so relaxed, so at peace. He remembers sharing scraps from the garbage with the cats who would sleep on his legs in Florida. Seeing Magnus treating his first friends in America with such gentleness flutters inside Toki’s heart. No man so kind to the animals can be really bad. The guys are wrong about Magnus, he decides. 

Carefully he sets down his plastic bag and watches the man talk to the cats. 

...

“Magnus?” barely a whisper through cracked lips. 

A firefly burn in the dark as Magnus pulls smoke into his lungs. “Yeah?”

Toki licks his lips. “You’s feeds the cats today?”

In the shadows the tall man’s hunched form stiffens. “There aren’t...what?” The basement’s watery dim light reflects off Magnus’ wide eyes. “How did you know about that?”

“Seens you with thems. How ams they doings?”

“They’re...fine. Doing just fine.”

“That’s goods.”

The cigarette flicks to the ground, light snuffed out by a booted toe. Toki doesn’t see Magnus leave, arms folded over his chest like he’s protecting a wound. In his mind he is in Florida but it’s so very cold. Toki lifts a hand but he has nothing to give the cats today. 

...

They sit side by side on the steps outside the Home for Wayward Musicians. Toki is still gaunt, Magnus pale and unsteady in his movements. He holds a red solo cup of kibble in one hand. 

“There’s three I’ve seen around,” Magnus is saying. “They’re still nervous but maybe...”

“Oh! Rights there!” Toki points excitedly. 

Under one of the newly planted bushes a pair of yellow eyes watch the men out of a patchwork furred face. 

“Stay calm,” Magnus nudges Toki with an elbow and a faint smile, flicking a piece of kibble at the bush. 

The scrawny calico inches out of its hiding place to sniff at the food. When it cautiously eats the tidbit another lands nearby. Magnus makes a soft whispering call. The cat looks at him, watches as he slowly withdraws more food and tosses it. Toki watches the cat with a smile. It doesn’t come any closer and returns to hiding when the solo cup is empty. 

“It takes time,” Magnus says, looking at the spot where the cat had been. “Before you know it, it’ll be like they were always here.”

They sit on the steps in the sun and reminisce about the cats they have known. 


	11. An Old Song - Pickles & Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles has a talk with Toki about the things in their heads. 
> 
> For the mental health prompt “Please don’t talk that way about yourself”. Requested by [ ThisisVenereVeritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas).

A sense of something at the edge of his awareness stirs Pickles awake. He can feel a presence at his bedroom door even with his eyes shut.

“Pickle?” Toki’s voice. 

“Hhhnyeeah?”

“Cans I come in?”

He shuffles the blankets aside and thumps the mattress. The door shuts quietly and Toki creeps to the bed, climbing bodily over Pickles before worming his way under one arm. On a good night Toki stretches himself out to wrap around anyone in his vicinity. Right now he’s curled tight and small, knees up and face buried in Pickles’ collarbones. 

“What’s on yer mind?” Pickles shifts his arm over the broad back. 

“I dids a bad thing,” Toki fidgets with a loose dreadlock in his fingers. 

“Did yah?”

“... I don’ts know.”

“What happened?”

“Nathans and Skwisgaar beens yelling...”

Still? Pickles had ducked out of the living room fifteen minutes into the impassioned rant his bandmates had started over which fantasy film was the objective best. That it had devolved into a shouting match was no surprise; he’d seen this fight play out frequently over the years. One of these days he’s going to lock both men in a closet until they come to an agreement. Toki has seen this same fight, too, so why...?

He remembers a scrawny kid still reeking of the streets huddled under his arm while Murderfaceand Magnus came to blows in the living room. Toki had babbled an apology only half in English and shivered like a kicked dog. Counting the knobby bones along the kid’s spine, Pickles had known then what was happening and remembered sheltering with Seth the same way when Calvert was on the warpath. 

“It ain’t yer fault, Toki. Yah know how those douchebags get.”

“Yeah, buts...” he mumbles something in Norwegian. 

Pickles taps him on the head with the hand resting between them. “Remember the rule in here.”

“Ja, in English,” a heavy sigh. “Ams being stupids again. Shouldn’ts have asked to watch Dragonsheart.”

After so many years, Pickles can feel the weight of everything under the words, the blame and self recrimination circling around in the head on his pillow. He worms his hand beneath Toki’s neck to give him a proper hug. 

“Hey. Don’t talk that way about yerself. Yah ain’t stupid. What those pair of dicks bitch about ain’t nothing to do with yah.”

“But ams the one picking the movie...”

“So? It’s yer turn to pick. Yah didn’t do nothing wrong, Toki.”

A shivering sigh. “Feels like I’s dids.”

“I know.”

They lay in silence while Toki’s thoughts curdle and his body remains tense. Pickles absently runs his fingers over the knobs in the other man’s spine, softened now by strong muscle. 

“What other people do ain’t something yah got control over,” he says. “It’s their choices. Ain’t yer fault.”

Toki draws a breath to object but stops at a squeeze from the arms around him. 

“Ain’t yer fault for feeling the way yah do about it, either. Remember what I told yah?”

“Abouts the bad things what is telling me’s ams bad?”

“Yeeah.”

“Ands how...those ams the people what’s tells little Toki theys own fucked up shit?”

“And?”

“And thems mean things am saying about Toki amnst not me’s, it’s thems douchebags?”

“Right,” he pats the back of Toki’s head. “Yah ain’t stupid and yah didn’t start shit tonight. That’s yer shitbag folks or whatever blaming yah for their bullshit when yah were too little to tell ‘em to fuck off.”

The words settle between them and Pickles idly strums his fingers over Toki’s back, tapping the frets under his hair. The body in his arms doesn’t uncurl but he begins to relax. 

“I’ll watch the movie with yah tomorrow if yah still wanna see it.”

“Reallys?” 

“Yeeah. That’s the one with Sean Conory ain’t it?”

“Ja. He ams the dragon. Haves you seen it Pickle?”

A shrug. “I dunno. Sounds cool though.”

Toki falls asleep in fits and starts. Pickles stays awake, humming the first slow song that enters his head. Whenever the weight in his arms startles, he keeps the tune and continues to gently strum his knuckles over muscle and bone. Eventually Toki uncurls and the arms held tight between them drape over Pickles’ middle. With the body in his arms at last unburdened, he sings himself back to sleep. 


	12. Not So Happy Camper - Murderface/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss prompt for Amazonboatchurch on tumblr. 
> 
> Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift.
> 
> Special thanks to Ash for suggesting Pickles would probably love a rock if it meant someone was thinking of him.

“Hey Picklesch!”

The man in question looks up from contemplating his feet in the cold river and Murderface lowers his hand. He was going to throw the item clutched in his sweating fist but the lost, distant gaze that meets him changes his mind. Murderface stomps through the campsite grass and drops down beside the shorter man.

“You, uh, enjoy having thisch plasche to yourschelf?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

When Toki had begged to break up the monotony of a Colorado camping trip Murderface had gone with. He wasn’t really in the mood to fish with Nathan and Skwisgaar. Pickles, who was always excited to go camping until they got there, had opted to stay behind and had apparently remained where they’d left him. He nudges a rock over with a pruned toe and digs into the cold mud.

“You want a refill?” Murderface gestures at the empty beer can in Pickles’ hand, only one.

A shrug. This is going to be harder than he intended. Maybe he should just go…

“Scho, uh… Schaw thisch and it made me think of you,” he crams the gift into Pickles’ empty hand. “You can juscht throw it in the river or whatever. Probably schkipsch pretty good.”

Pickles turns it around in his palm, releasing his empty can to run a finger over the middle. It’s a flat rock, lightly rounded on one side. There’s a pot leaf painted on the top in pastel colors, stripes of blue, pink, and white. Murderface had laughed when he saw it, hoping it might bring a spark back to their forlorn drummer. The silence that drags between them settles in the pit of his stomach while Pickles strokes the rock absently.

“It’sch schtupid. Wrong flag right? I’ll throw it away.”

He reaches for the tacky thing only for Pickles to yank it close to his chest. There’s a sparkle in his green eyes that isn’t happiness. Damn.

“You were thinkin’ about me?” his voice is small, barely daring to hope.

Murderface rubs at his neck uncertainly. “Yeah. You alwaysch scheem schad when we go camping.”

Arms wrap around his neck, one hand a tight fist digging into his back. Pickles hangs on even when Murderface startles back, half dragging the guy into his lap. A kiss lands on his scruffy cheek, another on his chin, one more between his mustache and the corner of his mouth. Almost defensively he wraps his arms around Pickles’ back, perhaps intending to crush him away. He ends up tipping backward, hair pressing down the grass and collecting mud, Pickles sprawled over his chest. Every kiss leaves a mark hotter than the sun and he’s dizzy with impending heat stroke. Hands clamp down on his cheeks, a rock digging in on one side. The kiss to his lips is slow and lingering. When they part he almost doesn’t notice Pickles scrubbing at his eyes against the backdrop of bliss and a too brilliant blue sky.

“Thenks Murderface,” he says thickly. “It’s great.”

Pickles climbs off him and offers a hand. They stand, hands sweating together but neither letting go. The rock goes deep into one of Pickles’ pockets where it won’t get lost. He smiles shyly up at Murderface.

“Wanna get wasted and throw bottles at Nate’n and Skwisgaar? Fuck up their fishin’ trip?”

“Hell yesh!”

They run to the stack of beer coolers still hand in hand, grinning.


	13. Rings - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki admires Magnus' collection of rings.
> 
> Tumblr prompt for Getting-Sloppy and inspired by his [beautiful art]()!

“What’s ams this one?”

“The Eye of Horus,” Magnus widens his own eyes, brows lowered in false menace.

“Ands this?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Just something I saw in an antiques shop. Thought it looked cool.”

“It ams cool!”

An awkward clearing of the throat. “Uhm. Thanks.”

Toki’s hands are warm, calloused and scarred from work far more grueling than playing guitar. The scrape of them and the warm breath where he’s leaning so close raises goosebumps under Magnus’ denim shirt.

“You’s like shoppinks at them am-teeks stores? Old shits for am old shit?” Lilt of a smile on the words’ edge.

“Better an old shit than a little shit,” he tugs halfheartedly at the imprisoned hand to no avail.

“This ones?” A thumb caressing gold, soft contrast to hard metal.

“My grandmother’s wedding band.”

“Wowee. But you ams not married.”

“She asked me to keep it. To remember her by.”

He can’t see his hand hidden behind the curtain of Toki’s hair. The warmth pressing to his skin around the ring is not fingers. Hot air ghosts over the back of his hand where Toki’s nose is pressed.

“Ones for Grandmother Hammer,” Toki murmurs. “Ones for Magnus.”

Lips press soft to his knuckles. His fingers twitch, gripping the hand holding him. A blush burns through his cheeks.

“You gots cool rings,” Toki pats the back of his hand.

Magnus swallows whatever he is feeling. “Thanks, man.”

“This?” Finger tracing the ornate shape on his thumb.

“Nothing special.”


	14. Workplace Mishap - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment set in [ThisisVenereVeritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas)'s fantastic [Hammertooth coffee shop AU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069586)!
> 
> Warning: a little blood.

Toki doesn’t pay much mind to the sound of glass breaking; it’s a common enough noise in any dining establishment. Magnus disappears behind the counter to clean up the mess.

“Shit.”

It’s barely a whisper but it launches Toki to his feet. He peers around the counter to see Magnus crouched on the ground near a broken coffee mug, cradling one hand close to his chest. Toki immediately crouches before him. The lanky man draws into himself at the unexpected presence.

“No customers behind the-” he starts angrily. “Oh. Uh, hey, Toki.”

“Lets me see you’s hand.”

Reluctantly Magnus puts his hand in Toki’s palm. A thin gash along his thumb is welling with blood. One drop leaves a bright trail as it slides down to pool on Toki’s skin. The young man hisses in sympathy.

“Gots to clean this out,” he says, standing to gently pull on Magnus’ wrist.

“It’s fine. I need to take care of…”

“Nos.” Toki’s gaze is hard and stern. “That cans wait.”

Magnus swallows nervously at the look on Toki’s face and gingerly climbs to his feet. He tries to protest the gentle washing of the cut in the sink, Toki blotting it dry with a napkin, and the ease with which he bandages the wound from the employee first aid kit. He presses a soft kiss over everything once it is wrapped. Before Magnus can do anything else, Toki rushes to sweep the large chunks of glass into a dustpan.

“Oh, hey! That’s my job…”

“Cans does it. I knows how to picks up glass.”

Toki blots the floor with a damp paper towel in a muted fury, as if attacking the thing that dared hurt his beloved. He stomps back to Magnus and the tension in his shoulders eases when he takes the injured hand in both of his.

“Are you okay, buddy?” Magnus’ brows crease.

“Ams just…don’ts like to see peoples hurt.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Magnus’ hand. “Don’ts like to sees you hurts. Cans you come sits with mes?”

From the back room Abigail shouts, “Nobody’s here! Go sit down, Magnus!”

Toki grins shakily and tugs on his hand. “You heards her.”

They settle in silence at Toki’s usual table and he doesn’t let go of Magnus’ hand, thumbs tracing the inked lines and wandering over his rings. His posture is tense again, eyes fixed on the clean new bandage. Magnus reaches out his free hand to lift Toki’s chin.

“Hey,” he says with a small smile. “I’m okay.”

“Ams you sures?” Toki’s eyes are watery.

Magnus leans in to place a gentle kiss on his lips, squeezing a hand with his injured one. “Yeah. Are you okay?”

Toki swallows and finally eases his grip, letting Magnus hold his hand instead. “Ams going to be.”

“Good. I’ll stay here until you are.”


	15. Surprise Attack - Toki/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt for Agaricales! Thank you for the excuse to write my OTP! :)
> 
> “You owe me.” “Fine, whatever you like.” and “You are crushing me right now.”

For such a tall guy, Toki is devastatingly quiet when he wants to be. He slinks through the shadows in the tv room, timing his footfalls to the chatter, and strikes with neither warning nor mercy.

“NyeeeEEEAAAAHHHH!!!” Pickles shrieks, beer bottle flying from his hand as he kicks and struggles at the fingers skittering over his ribs. “Toki! The fuck! Stahp!”

Laughing and squirming, Pickles flails himself away from the assault. Toki hops over the couch to settle in Pickles’ vacated seat, grinning.

“Hey, Pickle. Whats ams you so startleds for?” He can barely keep a straight face.

“Douchebag,” Pickles laughs and swats a hand at him. “I was watchin’ tv when some asshole snuck up behind me. You seen him?”

“Nopes.”

“That’s too bad. I got some payback fer him!”

Pickles launches himself at Toki, years of practice giving him an advantage as he digs his fingers in. Toki howls and writhes, tipping backward over the couch arm. Panting and red faced on the floor, he is neither able nor willing to move as Pickles slithers over the couch to sprawl on his stomach.

“Ya made me drop my beer,” he says with a smile.

“Sorrys.”

“Are ya?”

A grin. “Nots really. Cans get yous another.”

“I dunno. I was really enjoyin’ that one. Think ya owe me somethin’ better.”

“Yeahs? Whats you want?”

Pickles looks to the ceiling in faux contemplation before craning his neck forward to press a kiss to Toki’s lips. They trade quick kisses that increasingly linger until Toki lets out a huff.

“Ams squishing me, Pickle.”

“Oh. Sahrry. Want me to move?”

“Nos. Just warnings you.” He wraps strong arms around Pickles’ shoulders and squeezes until the smaller man grunts, limp and relaxed.

“Yer too good to me,” Pickles smiles.

“Ams not for you,” he says with a smile that puts paid to the lie. “Sometimes ams just wantings to give hugs.”

“Little shit,” Pickles snakes his arms around the man’s neck.

It’s the opening Toki has been waiting for. He spiders his fingers under Pickles’ arms to an indignant scream. 

“Oh gahd I’m gonna piss myself!” Pickles howls, bucking away and giving Toki just enough time to bolt. “Ya better run! I ain’t goin’ easy on ya when I catch ya!”

They pelt down the gloomy Mordhaus corridors, laughter echoing in their wake.


	16. At the End of All Things - Pickles/Toki/Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for ThisisVenereVeritas: “I loved you.” “Then why did you let him get in between us?”

Seeing Magnus’ arm so casually draped over Toki’s shoulder feels like reading the book of Revelation for the first time. A yawning pit of knowing despair fills Pickles’ guts. He can see the future already and it is a ruined, desiccated, lonely place.

“Hellooo, Pickles,” it’s 1999 all over again and he realizes that his heart never stopped being broken.

“Magnus.”

Nobody seems to notice how drunk Pickles gets as soon as they arrive back at Mordhaus, all too caught up in their own memories.

...

The apocalypse comes in fits and starts, taking pieces of Pickles with it. First Toki, distancing himself as he and Magnus develop a strange friendship that feels unnatural in every way. Then Nathan, who doesn’t realize the magnitude of his own actions. As the band dissolves Pickles finds himself wandering Mordhaus increasingly alone. He tries to escape only to find himself a vineyard ghost before that dream, too, crumbles.

By the day of the funeral he doesn’t know how he’s still alive. He chalks it up to the perverse tenacity that dragged him to LA, to Phoenix, to fame and back twice over, and wishes he could just fucking let go already.

In the end he regains something he never knew he had. And moments later loses it all once more.

...

That Toki forgives the fucker after all of it galls Pickles. He watches them dance around one another, inching closer, and can’t remember ever being so angry. Or so he tells himself, face down on a bar, a table, the floor, clinking of empty bottles and shot glasses whispering the truth he damn well knows. It wouldn’t change anything to say it out loud.

...

It comes to blows the way things always do with him. Toki is pinching his bleeding nose, staring at Pickles like he’s never been hit before. Pickles is panting hard, gasping for air like he’s having a panic attack because it can’t possibly be anything else.

“Pickle...” he sounds so wounded for all that they were screaming at each other moments before. “Ams loved you...”

“Yeah?” He’s choking on something lodged in his throat. “Then why’d ya let that mother fucker get between us?!”

“Magnus?”

He can’t stomach hearing that name from those lips, not now. Retching, hot bile burning his mouth, Pickles runs and pretends he doesn’t hear his own name, plaintive, at his back.

There is no Heaven after the end of the world, no golden city. He pukes in some forgotten corner, trying in vain to keep his hair out of it, and tells himself the tears are for his aching stomach, nothing more.


	17. Hearthstone - Pickles & Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles having a one-sided conversation he isn’t aware of about things he doesn’t know.

It’s quiet in Charles’ office, peaceful and cozy in a way he’s only known since a Phoenix summer more than a decade ago. Pickles lounges on the office couch, legs warmed by the crackling fireplace.

“...third quarter staff shortages after the Carlsbad show...”

“Ya say somethin’, chief?”

Charles glances up from his laptop, eyebrow raised. “I don’t believe so, no.”

The words taste like consternation, chalky with a savory undercurrent. Pickles licks his teeth, nose wrinkling. Charles whispers something, continuing his musings on their New Mexico gig, lips unmoving. Pickles glances at the half smoked joint in his hand. 

“Must be some bad shit,” he muses before taking another drag. 

“It’s from the stockpile. Shouldn’t be any different from his usual. Perhaps I should contact supply.”

“I’m right here. Ya don’t gotta talk like I ain’t.”

Charles blinks and Pickles has a sharp sense of surprise, fear, a dropped glass shattering on unyielding stone. “I, ah. Didn’t say anything.”

“Is it happening already? That’s not right. It’s too soon.” A memory of hot sand scouring his face, the echo of water dripping deep under a vast sea. 

A desk drawer clicks open and Pickles perks up, tossing his joint in the fireplace. Charles almost never lets him have the good shit from his secret stash! He doesn’t bother to hide his excitement as he walks to the desk, bouncing a little on his heels. Just under the velvet rich taste of powder and leaf he feels the oily slick of guilt on the back of his tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, lips firmly pursed, the lighter flicking closed in his hand. 

The whispers fade and Pickles sinks back into his own skin, shrinking until he’s nothing but the sound of fire in a hearth. 


	18. Empty Hearth - Pickles/Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles says goodbye.

Under his fingers the hand is cold. The shape is right, sword fighter’s callouses in their places, the wrinkles at each joint. There is no warmth or give. It’s like touching a statue and the cold seeps into Pickles’ skin. He strokes that frigid hand over a still breast and quivers.

They wiped the blood off his face, filled in the cuts and painted over the bruises. His lips are a little too red and the hair is wrong but it’s not going to matter when they burn the body. 

“Pickles?” Nathan puts a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

He swallows and decides fuck what anyone thinks. Pickles bends and lays a kiss on that cold brow. 

“Bye, Charlie,” he whispers. 

...

He wakes with the memory of that cold, unmoving hand etched in his skin. Beside him someone is breathing and Pickles spends a moment fighting the deep clinging mud of loss. The man in the coffin hadn’t been Charles but it’s difficult for his mind and heart to reconcilewith the impossible reality he’s found himself in. 

Charles is asleep on his back, hands resting on his muscular chest. It’s such a familiar sight, very much like the one which has haunted him for months. Carefully Pickles touches the hand rising and falling with every breath, its warmth sinking into his fingers. He leans up to press his lips to Charles’ brow, breathe in the smell of cologne and clean hair. 

An arm slides over his back, a sleep fogged sigh ghosting over his throat. Tears streak down his cheeks as if they’ve always been there, hot rivers tracing over grooves worn by eons of heavy rain. Still hating to cry where anyone can see, an old instinct he’s never given up, Pickles buries his face in Charles’ warm neck and sobs. 

One hand strokes his trembling back. The other, so familiar, it’s cold ghost still haunting him, squeezes his fingers, calloused thumb tracing the shape of his knuckles. 


	19. Out of the Blue - Charles/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief unhinges us and I don’t think coming back from the dead would make that suddenly stop. 
> 
> A follow up to Embers in Ash, but it stands on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My last grandmother died yesterday (February 12, 2021) so I am forcibly being reminded of the strange ways grief screws us up. Inspired by trying to get food and bursting into tears/laughing because it made me think of an endearing quirk of hers.

Pickles has never been the sort to cry often and when he does it’s a sharp and ugly thing. Since his return from supposed death, Charles feels like he’s seen more tears in a few weeks than in the decades they’ve known one another. Knowing it’s because of him and how powerless he is to do anything against it serves to twist the knife that much further. 

They sit in a diner booth opposite one another, a lurid pineapple themed bandana hiding Pickles from the world. It’s the first date they’ve been on since Charles’ return and he’s been enjoying the normalcy of it, in as much as anything in their lives can be normal. 

“And, ah, the father says, ‘It’s called The Aristocrats’,” he finishes the old joke with a self depricating smile. 

The mayonnaise dipped frrench fry in Pickles’ fingers drops back to the plate as he lets out a wet laugh that ends on a gruesome sniffle. “Oh jesus,” he says, dragging his hands over his face, shoulders shaking. With a sick lurch Charles realizes the man is trying to laugh through burgeoning sobs. 

“Was it that bad?” he offers weakly. 

The silverware rattles as Pickles collapses on the table, head buried in his arms. Charles moves to sit beside him, draping an arm over his quaking back and pressing their thighs together. The muffled sound from Pickles is a travesty: helpless giggling laced with a barely contained keening whimper, like he’s trying not to scream, and the occasional wet snort of a frantic breath. It’s not long before Pickles starts to hiccup and he pounds his fist on the table to emphasize each one. 

“Charlie do ya-do ya remember...in Reno? And ya told that same damn joke only...only it was with the blind guy and the dead rat and I... I laughed so hard I puked on yer shoes and! And ya-ya said...! S-said...”The words snag in his throat. 

Charles remembers consigning those shoes to a hotel trash can and watching bad cable in his briefs with Pickles sprawled in his lap. He’d throw out a thousand pairs of overpriced shoes for that laugh, the way Pickles flushed from ears to chest with the gasping exertion of it and how such helpless mirth was always contagious. He smiles wistfully. 

“Yes. I remember.”

Pickles slams both fists on the table and shoves himself hard enough into Charles’ chest to knock the air from his lungs. On instinct Charles folds both arms around him. 

“Fuck!” Pickles thumps a closed fist over Charles’ heart, all laughter gone from his voice. “This is so goddamn stupid! Yer fuckin’...fuckin’ right here!”

“Yes. But, ah,” he clears his throat, hating the words. “Nine months is a long time.”

Charles tries not to entertain “whst ifs” but in these monents when the man he’s loved for more than twenty years is wiping snot on his jacket, he wonders if perhaps he should have stayed dead. There are no five stages of inverse grief, no manuals for what to do when your loved one comes back from the grave. He feels adrift watching the wounds of mourning tear open, bleeding their contents into his awareness with the razored knowledge that this is his fault. 

Pickles blindly fumbles a napkin from the dispenser and blows his nose. He gulps air like taking a drink on a burning day and crushes his cheek against Charles’ sternum. Charles rests his chin in Pickles’ hair and does his middling best to hold the pieces together in his arms. 


	20. Written in Skin - Abigail/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Pickles share their scars. 
> 
> Thanks to the Hammertooth Rats for encouraging me to do this one!

“Oh shit, dood.”

Abigail freezes at the sound of Pickles’ quietly horrified voice from the bed behind her. Swallowing, she finishes pulling her shirt over her head. A knot sits heavy in her stomach as she holds the wadded fabric in front of her to hide the second scar, higher up, where the knife jutted out from under her ribs. She flinches at the sound of movement behind her and the soft thump of fabric hitting the floor. Looking over one shoulder she sees Pickles flipping his dreads over his shoulders to leave his chest completely exposed. 

“There,” he says with a little smile. “Ya showed me yers, I’ll show ya mine.”

“I see you with your shirt off all the time,” her smile is more a grimace. 

“Yeah. But do ya really?”

With a start Abigail realizes she hasn’t. He almost always has his hair down or is in such frantic motion that she’s never properly looked. Pickles chews nervously at his lower lip as she takes in the sight of his pale chest, undercut by a pair of old ghostly lines where a scalpel had cut long ago. 

“Oh.”

“Heh. Yep.” He dances a hand nervously by another line on his abdomen. “It ain’t really the same. I wanted it. Hurt like hell.”

The shirt in her hands falls to the floor and Abigail sits heavily beside him. 

“Knives are like that,” she says uncertainly, unable to look at him. 

He scoots close enough to rest his thigh against hers, lifts a hand. “Can I?”

She swallows again, nods once before she can rethink her answer. 

His fingers trace the jagged line of poorly done stitching, warm on her skin and alien strange over the damaged nerves. She flinches and he gently lays his palm flat, warming the scar under his touch. Very carefully he places his other hand on the smaller exit wound under her breasts. 

“It don’t hurt forever,” he says. 

Sniffing back unexpected tears, Abigail drops her head on his shoulder.“Promise?”

“Yeah.” He pulls her close in wiry, strong arms as she brings a hand to his chest. “I’d know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I yell about this show and sometimes post art at [metalrat](https://metalrat.tumblr.com/).


End file.
